


Of Strigas and Storytellers

by ghostinthelibrary



Series: Where There's a Witcher [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Canon compliant mentions of incest, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, M/M, Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23721112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary
Summary: When a contentious mayoral election in Vizima is complicated by a series of mysterious deaths, Jaskier and Geralt are hired by the mayor’s opponent to stop the creature responsible. But the case ends up being more complicated than either of them expected.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Where There's a Witcher [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604140
Comments: 164
Kudos: 700





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I didn’t intend for the break between installments in this series to be quite so long. Sorry, guys! I have two other projects I’ve been working on that sidetracked me, and then a pandemic happened and things got crazy.
> 
> This is a somewhat loose retelling of Episode 3, “Betrayer Moon” and the short story from _The Last Wish_ “The Witcher.”
> 
> ETA 6/30/20: Thank you to Terresdebrume for the beautiful cover image for this fic! Cover images for the whole series can be found at https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/terresdebrume/622249613697662977

The surface of the lake hasn’t so much as rippled in four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. The water reflects the dour gray of the sky. Jaskier stands, hands jammed into his pockets, and watches for any hint of movement. Geralt has been alive for a long, long time and has survived all manner of creatures. One selkiemore won’t be what changes that, even if he did just watch it swallow Geralt whole.

“He’s dead,” one of the police officers standing behind Jaskier says. “You owe me ten crowns, Johansson.”

“He said it would take a bit,” Officer Johansson whines. He seems more concerned about the loss of ten crowns than the potential loss of life.

“He’s been down there ten minutes. He’s not coming back up.”

Jaskier glances at the stopwatch app on his phone. Five minutes and twelve seconds, he wants to tell them, but he knows it won’t make much of a difference.

“Crazy fucker let that thing eat him alive,” the loudmouth police officer opines. “No one walks away from that, not even a witcher.”

“Hopefully he’ll poison the thing and it’ll go belly up,” a third police officer, a weaselly man with a terrible mustache, says, to laughter from the other two men. Jaskier grits his teeth so hard he can hear them grinding together.

“Show some respect,” the lone woman in the quartet of police officers snaps. “That’s a piece of living history that may have just been lost.”

Jaskier snorts and looks forward to the look on Geralt’s face when Jaskier calls him a piece of living history later.

“We should have just bombed the shit out of the lake,” Officer Loudmouth continues, like no one else has said anything. “You saw how big that thing was. You saw all those teeth. One mutant with a couple of swords wasn’t going to do a damn thing.”

“He said he’s done this before.” Officer Johansson sounds increasingly desperate about the ten crowns.

“He was lying. No one gets swallowed whole by a selkiemore and survives.”

“He’s fine,” Jaskier says breezily. “Honestly, why would you take the time to hire a witcher if you doubt his capabilities?”

The four police officers look at him with surprise, like they forgot he was standing in front of them.

“He just got eaten alive,” Officer Bad Mustache says.

“He told you that was going to happen.” Jaskier doesn’t let his confidence fade, even as time on the stopwatch approaches seven minutes. “The best way to kill a selkiemore is from the inside.”

Geralt told him that if he didn’t emerge within ten minutes, he probably wasn’t coming back. He still has three minutes to go. Jaskier isn’t worried. Not even a little worried. Geralt didn’t seem concerned at all, just resigned, like this was just another unpleasant chore, like snaking the drain or cleaning out Mousesack’s litter box.

“He’s done this before,” Jaskier says.

“Have you ever seen it?” Officer Loudmouth demands.

“This is the first selkiemore spotted on the Continent in over a century, so no. As Geralt said before he went into the water.”

The four officers eye Jaskier with varying degrees of annoyance. “Who are you again?” Bad Mustache asks.

“Jaskier Pankratz, Geralt’s personal blogger.” He ignores the officers’ sneers about his career as a blogger. After a series of posts about crimes against merfolk that he published over the summer went viral, Jaskier’s blog is finally doing well enough that he’s been able to devote himself to it full-time. He won’t let a couple of assholes make him feel bad when his career is finally taking off.

“What does a witcher need a personal blogger for?” the woman asks, though she sounds more curious than judgmental, which is a nice change.

“I’m pretty sure your captain found us through my blog,” Jaskier says. “It’s good publicity for Geralt and it educates the public about witchers and the monsters they fight. Like you said, Geralt’s a piece of living history. Someone needs to record his exploits.”

Officer Loudmouth snorts. “It’s not like we need fucking witchers anymore.”

“Really?” Jaskier asks coldly. “Did I miss you volunteering to be swallowed whole by a selkiemore?”

Officers Bad Mustache and Johansson snicker and the loudmouth’s face turns very red. Jaskier has a distinct impression that this is about to turn unpleasant when there’s an enormous splash and the selkiemore surfaces. Officer Loudmouth lets out a breathy shriek and Jaskier flinches, but from the amount of black blood pooling on the surface of the lake, he assumes the thing is dead. Another half of the selkiemore surfaces--gods, he didn’t realize how enormous it was--and a glance confirms that yes, it is dead. He looks at his phone. Nine minutes and eleven seconds. Geralt was really cutting it close.

The witcher himself emerges from the lake, covered head to toe in gore.

“You took your time, my love.” Jaskier saunters towards the lake, not sparing any of the asshole officers a glance. He thinks about leaning in for a kiss just to prove a point, but the strong fishy smell dissuades him. “Were you trying to make that as dramatic as possible?”

“Lots of scar tissue. I wasn’t the first person to try to cut their way out of that selkiemore.”

“Well, that’s a horrifying image.” Jaskier picks a piece of blubber out of Geralt’s hair.

Geralt’s lips quirk. “You were worried.”

“You were down there a long time, Geralt! You know that I have nothing but faith in you, but you were eaten alive right in front of me, and it was a lot to process.”

“I told you I’d be back.” Geralt has the fond, amused look on his face that makes his eyes go all soft when he looks at Jaskier and it’s so incredibly tempting to kiss him, except for the smell. The smell is really bad.

“That you did. Hey, you!” Jaskier sends a brilliant smile to Officer Loudmouth. “Don’t forget to pay your colleague his ten crowns.”

Officer Loudmouth glowers at Jaskier and Geralt.

“Making friends, I see,” Geralt says.

“You know me.”

“I do. Should we leave town before they find a reason to throw you in jail?”

“Probably.” Jaskier looks Geralt up and down. “Are you going to get in Roach like that?”

Geralt shrugs. “I brought a towel.”

“I’m going to remind you of this next time you won’t let me eat in your car,” Jaskier says.

“This is less of a mess than you make eating.”

Jaskier elbows him in the side, then makes a noise of dismay when he gets selkiemore on his favorite jacket. Damn, that’s going to be a pain to wash out. As revenge, he snaps a photo of Geralt’s entrail-covered face for the blog. “Gorgeous. We should make this your new headshot on the website.”

Geralt grunts. “Let’s go get our money and get out of this shit town.”

“Those are the most beautiful words you’ve ever said to me.” Jaskier scrambles after him.

“Hey, who’s going to clean that up?” Officer Loudmouth demands as they walk by, pointing to the various pieces of selkiemore bobbing in the lake.

“We do the killing, not the cleanup, my friend.” Jaskier gives him a radiant smile. “After all, who needs witchers anymore, am I right?”

***

“Can you give me a better description of what it was like inside the selkiemore?” Jaskier calls. “I’ve used the phrase ‘cavernous maw’ three times so far and I need something fresh.”

“It was dark,” Geralt says from the bathroom. “Smelled like fish.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You really have a way with poetry, Geralt.”

“There are selkiemore guts in my ear. Not feeling very poetic right now.”

Jaskier sighs and settles back against the mound of pillows on Geralt’s bed. Or, their bed now. Jaskier moved into Geralt’s townhouse last month, and they’re still going through the adjustment period of combining two households worth of furniture, clothing, and in Geralt’s words, “all this shit” into one. And even though he spent almost every night here for months before he actually moved in, Jaskier is still learning to think of this house as theirs, not Geralt’s. It’s definitely nicer than Jaskier’s old apartment in one of the shittiest neighborhoods in Posada, and it’s very easy to get used to waking up next to Geralt every morning.

“Jaskier?” Geralt calls plaintively.

Jaskier grins. “Do you need help?”

“Yes.”

“Give me three more words about the selkiemore, and I’ll come help you.”

“Really fucking big.”

“You win on a technicality.” Jaskier sets aside his laptop and their fluffy gray cat, Mousesack, and heads into the bathroom. He finds Geralt in the bathtub, which would normally be an erotic sight, if not for the bits of selkiemore floating in the water. Even after Jaskier dumped several buckets of water over Geralt’s head before even letting him in the house, Geralt still had a lot of guts on him.

“I’m not cleaning this bathtub, I hope you know,” Jaskier says.

“When do you ever clean anything?”

Jaskier would squawk in outrage, but he knows that’s what his boyfriend is aiming for, so he kneels down to examine the scratches on Geralt’s back. They’re long and shallow, probably from the selkiemore’s teeth, and Jaskier shudders to think of what would have happened if the creature had bit down. He’s very glad that selkiemore are basically extinct and that the next time Geralt has to face one, Jaskier will most likely already be long-dead.

Gently, Jaskier takes a washcloth and begins to clean the scratches. Geralt leans into the touch and Jaskier smiles. “How about our next job is something nice and simple?” Jaskier asks. “We haven’t had a wraith in a while. They make for great articles, what with the tragic backstories and all.”

“Do we have another job lined up yet?”

“Not yet. I didn’t see any emails or voicemails. You know what that means, don’t you?”

“No more money?”

“Well, yes.” Jaskier rolls his eyes and rubs some chamomile salve on his hands, then massages it into Geralt’s back. “But also, we have a little free time.”

“Hm.” Geralt closes his eyes and tips back his head as Jaskier works at his shoulders. “Maybe we can finally teach you how to handle a sword.”

“I’ve never gotten any complaints about how I handle your sword.”

“Do you ever take your mind out of the gutter?”

“Not when you’re around, my love.” Jaskier peers around his shoulder at the sword in question. “And it appears to be working for you.”

“You could join me.”

“You know, normally that’s an extremely tempting offer, but right now there’s a lot of viscera in that bathtub and that’s not really my—”

Geralt stands up abruptly, steps out of the tub, and picks Jaskier up.

“I wasn’t done!” Jaskier protests as Geralt carries him into the bedroom. Considering Jaskier’s only a couple of inches shorter than Geralt, it’s more comical than romantic, but it still really works for Jaskier.

“Yes, you were.” Geralt lays Jaskier down on the bed and climbs on top of him.

“Geralt, I don’t think this duvet is waterproof.”

“Do you care?” Geralt’s mouth finds the ticklish spot under Jaskier’s ear and he squirms.

“No,” Jaskier gasps. “Not really.”

Geralt begins to indulge in what seems to be his favorite game--driving Jaskier completely out of his mind. He holds his body over Jaskier’s, not quite touching him, and every time Jaskier tries to arch his back so their hips will meet, Geralt pushes himself farther up, away from Jaskier. Jaskier peels his shirt off, hoping to entice his boyfriend closer, and Geralt responds by kissing his way down Jaskier’s chest and stomach. Jaskier makes a pitiful whining noise as he stops there, with his lips pressed into the skin below Jaskier’s belly button.

“Fucking hells, Geralt, you’re killing me.”

He can feel Geralt’s smile against him. “We really should teach you how to use a sword.”

“Seriously?” Jaskier lifts his head off the pillow and looks down at his gorgeous, naked, and completely maddening boyfriend. “That’s your idea of dirty talk?”

Geralt kisses his way over to the tiny white scars on Jaskier’s side, souvenirs from the wyvern attack that brought them together. “You should know how to defend yourself. There’ve been too many close calls.”

“Is this about the werewolf last week? Because that was an isolated incident.” They didn’t realize that the werewolf Geralt was hunting had a mate until she was nearly on top of Jaskier, her jaws only inches from his throat when Geralt decapitated her.

Geralt nips at the spot above his hip bone. “And the merfolk, and the bruxa, and the graveir, and the wyvern, and Stregobor…”

“Please don’t ever say Stregobor’s name in bed again. Please. And I’m more of a lover than a fighter. You know that.” To demonstrate, Jaskier grabs Geralt by the shoulders and flips him over, so that Jaskier can straddle his hips. “And if you don’t take my pants off right this minute, my head is going to fucking explode.”

“Can’t have that.” As Geralt’s hands find the zipper on Jaskier’s jeans, his cell phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Jaskier closes his eyes. “Don’t answer that.”

“No one ever calls me unless there’s a monster to kill,” Geralt says.

“Exactly.”

“Could be an emergency.”

“I have an emergency _right now_ , Geralt.” Jaskier groans. “Though, there could be a small child being held hostage by a hag as we speak.”

“Do you want me to answer the phone or not?”

“It’s not a matter of want. It’s a matter of duty.” Jaskier rolls off of Geralt.

“So noble.” Geralt reaches for his phone. Jaskier tries not to gaze too dreamily at the way his arms and pecs flex. He’s known for a while that he’s completely gone over Geralt, but he keeps being reminded of that fact whenever he can’t stop drooling over the way Geralt’s hands look when he holds a cup of coffee or the little furrow that appears in his brow whenever he’s trying to do anything technological.

“This is Geralt,” Geralt says into the phone and Jaskier’s heart swells with pride, because Geralt is _finally_ listening to him about proper phone greetings. Of course, then Geralt follows that up with a bunch of grunts, a couple of yeses, and a no, which is why Jaskier likes to be the one to talk to potential clients.

By the time Geralt hangs up the phone, Jaskier sees that he’s gone from adoring boyfriend mode to full witcher mode. Jaskier’s arousal flags. As much as he likes full witcher mode, he never gets laid when Geralt is focused on whatever monster there is to kill.

“What is it?” Jaskier asks, already reaching for his shirt.

“We have a job in Vizima,” Geralt says. “We’ll have to leave in the morning. What are you doing?”

Jaskier pauses halfway through putting his shirt on. “Thought you were focused on the job.”

“We don’t have to leave until morning,” Geralt says. “I’m more focused on you then the job.”

Jaskier melts a little at that. “Geralt, that may be the most flattering thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Geralt snorts. “Come here.”

Jaskier does. This time, no one interrupts them.

***

“What the hell is a vukodlak?” Jaskier asks the next morning, curled up in Roach’s passenger. If the car still carries a faint whiff of selkiemore, neither of them mention it.

“A type of vampire,” Geralt says. “Rare. I’ve only encountered a few.”

“How many kinds of vampires are there?”

“Too many.”

Jaskier loves Geralt for many reasons. A clear and comprehensive way of communicating is not one of them. “So, I’m guessing it’s killing people?”

Geralt nods. “At least one victim every full moon for the last six years. The next full moon starts tomorrow night.”

“And they’re just calling you now?”

“Calling in a witcher was probably their last resort.”

He says it matter-of-factly, which is the worst part to Jaskier. He knows that Geralt was putting up with humans’ distaste, distrust, and sometimes outright hatred of witchers for centuries before Jaskier was even born. It doesn’t seem to bother him anymore. Still, it never fails to amaze Jaskier how boneheaded people can be. The fact that someone can hire Geralt to risk his life to save them from a monster and then slam the door in his face is infuriating.

“Isn’t killing on a full moon more of a werewolf thing than a vampire thing?” Jaskier asks.

“Vukodlaks are animalistic vampires, more like fleders than bruxa.”

“Great.” Jaskier shudders. 

“The old wives’ tale is that they’re created when a wolf walks over a pregnant young woman’s grave. The fetus becomes an undead creature.”

“Well, that sounds like bullshit.”

“It is. Doesn’t stop people from believing it.”

“Ooh, that would make a good blog post. All the different types of vampires and how to identify which one is currently trying to rip your throat out.” Jaskier whips out his phone to make a note. “So, who called us?”

“A city councilman named Ostrit.”

“How much is he paying us?”

“Five thousand crowns.”

Jaskier almost chokes on his coffee. “Shit, that’s rent for the next two months.”

“It is.” Geralt frowns, looking less delighted than someone who's about to be paid five thousand crowns should be.

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier asks.

“I didn’t even need to haggle. He offered me the five thousand crowns right off the bat.”

“Guess he really wants to get rid of the vukodlak.” Jaskier reaches over and tries to smooth away the frown line in Geralt’s brow. “Look, let’s actually get there and here what the man has to say before you decide he’s a shady character and turn down five thousand crowns. On top of rent, I could use a new jacket. I got selkiemore on the one I was wearing yesterday.”

“Maybe you should kill the vukodlak yourself, then,” Geralt says, which earns him an indignant gasp from Jaskier.

They fall silent for a while. Jaskier will never admit it to Geralt, but he’s come to love the long drives spent in Roach’s passenger seat, legs tucked under him as he watches all the scenery the Continent has to offer sail by. After over a year of wheedling, Geralt has finally let Jaskier play the radio, and he sings along under his breath. The trees are a riot of orange and red. Jaskier occasionally points out a particularly pretty tree, and Geralt makes the appropriate appreciative noises. His hand rests on Jaskier’s knee. The slow circles he makes with his thumb send delicious shivers up Jaskier’s spine.

Everything is peaceful and wonderful, and it’s easy for Jaskier to forget that they’re on their way to slay a man-eating monster.

***

Jaskier has been to Vizima a few times; the mountains surrounding the city are home to a number of ski resorts and while Jaskier isn’t the biggest fan of skiing, he is a fan of sitting by a fire with a cup of hot chocolate in hand and watching lots of athletic people in flannel walk by. He’s always thought of Vizima as a large, bustling city, filled with culture and art and so much flannel. But as he and Geralt walk from their hotel to the restaurant where they’re meeting Councilman Ostrit for lunch, Jaskier notices that the sidewalks are nearly empty. The people he does see out and about are walking quickly with their heads down. It’s not quite ski season yet, but still, there should be more foot traffic at this time of day.

“They’re all scared,” Geralt says quietly as a young woman hurries by him. “The whole city stinks of fear.”

“Well, it is almost a full moon and there’s a monster killing people.”

“Hm.” Geralt pauses outside a shop window and Jaskier sees what he’s looking at: a sign depicting a smiling fair-haired man, with bold red text over the picture reading _Mayor Foltest: Traitor. Coward. Murderer._ Below is a sign that reads _Ostrit for Mayor._

“Did Councilman Ostrit mention to you that he’s running for mayor?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt glowers at the sign. “No, he did not. Fuck, I hate politics.”

“We don’t know that he hired you as a political move. He could have just done it out of a sense of civic duty.” At Geralt’s incredulous look, Jaskier shrugs. “Okay, but if being a pawn in an election earns us five thousand crowns, I’m not complaining.”

“Quite the moral backbone you’ve got there.”

“Moral backbones don’t pay the rent, love.” Seeing Geralt glancing back in the direction of the hotel, Jaskier adds, “Look, why don’t we just meet with the guy and hear what he has to say? If nothing else, someone is going to be killed by a vukodlak tomorrow night unless someone stops it.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts, but he still follows Jaskier. The witcher might hate politics, but he’s too much of a big softie to leave an entire city in distress without good reason.

As soon as Jaskier sees the little cafe where they’re meeting Councilman Ostrit, Jaskier knows this is going to be an interesting lunch. It’s the kind of restaurant with white tablecloths, calligraphed menus with only a few items, and quietly disdainful servers. It’s the kind of restaurant where Jaskier’s parents used to drag him as a kid before they realized that he was incapable of staying still and quiet for more than thirty seconds at a time. It’s not the kind of restaurant where people normally invite witchers.

It’s not hard to figure out who they’re meeting--there’s only one patron in the restaurant, a man in his early fifties with neatly trimmed salt and pepper hair and a matching beard. One look at him tells Jaskier that they should have asked for more than five thousand crowns; this man could probably give them ten times that without blinking. If Jaskier knows anything, it’s clothes, and he knows that the man’s deceptively simple chinos and polo shirt probably cost more than Roach.

“Ah, right on time.” The man rises to his feet with a very white smile. “I’m Councilman Ostrit, we spoke on the phone. Which one of you is Geralt?”

Jaskier looks between Geralt--tall, broad, scowling, the black leather pants and black shirt he always wears, not to mention the wolf medallion—and himself--only athletic in the loosest sense of the word and wearing a buttercup yellow silk v-neck and purple skinny jeans--and briefly contemplates lying and pretending to be the witcher, just for laughs. He would look dashing with two swords strapped to his back, if he could manage to stand up straight, but Geralt ruins his fun, like always.

“That’s me.” Geralt takes the councilman’s offered hand. “This is my associate, Jaskier Pankratz.”

Jaskier grins. Geralt is really getting better at human interaction; he never used to remember to introduce Jaskier.

“Ah, yes.” Ostrit turns and shakes Jaskier’s hand. “I’ve read your blog, Jaskier. You’re a compelling storyteller. Have you thought about writing a book?”

Jaskier can feel his cheeks turning pink because yes, he has frequently thought about writing a book, though he doesn’t know how Geralt would feel about that. Before he can answer, Ostrit is already ushering them into chairs and talking about the weather and how the duck here is divine and asking whether they’d like some wine. Jaskier can see that this man is a polished politician; if he notices Geralt’s discomfort, he gives no indication. Jaskier can make polite chit chat with the best of them, so he answers all the requisite questions about their journey north and remarks on how it’s unusually warm for this time of year and yes, they would like some wine.

Geralt makes it a whole ten minutes before he clearly can’t handle it anymore. “Tell us about the vukodlak.”

Jaskier side eyes him. They’ve discussed this; you don’t talk business before the entrees arrive.

But instead of looking offended, Ostrit leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his wine. “It’s hard to tell when it started exactly. Vizima is a big city. People vanish all the time. As far as we can tell, the first deaths occured six years ago. They were originally blamed on a werewolf pack that had been causing problems. But even after the werewolves were cleared out, the deaths continued. It wasn’t until four years or so ago that we realized what we were dealing with.”

“What makes you think it’s a vukodlak?” Geralt asks. “They’re rare.”

“Eyewitness testimony. There have been a handful of survivors of its attacks. The last victim was a sixteen year old boy named Mikal. He survived long enough to give a description to a sketch artist.” Ostrit slides his phone across the table. The drawing is the most hideous thing Jaskier has ever seen, a shriveled creature with a featureless, swollen face and a gaping maw filled with teeth. He shudders and looks away.

“Could be a vukodlak,” Geralt says. “Hard to tell.”

“Last year, Mayor Foltest instituted a curfew during the full moon,” Ostrit says. “All businesses close and everyone must be inside their homes by nightfall. We thought without any easy prey, the creature would go back to its crypt and waste away. Instead, it’s started breaking into people’s homes. The boy, Mikal, was asleep in his bed when it attacked him. Nowhere in Vizima is safe.”

“So why haven’t we heard about this?” Jaskier asks. “Six years with at least one fatality every month. Sounds like that should have made the news.”

Ostrit’s mouth twists, like he’s tasting something bitter. “Mayor Foltest is a personal friend of the emperor.”

“Ah.” Jaskier sits back. Of course. When someone has the ear of the emperor of Nilfgaard, stories they don’t want printed don’t get printed. Things they don’t want on the internet vanish without a trace. People who get in their way are either bribed into silence or have terrible accidents. He feels his first prickle of nervousness about this job. After all, he and Geralt have two good reasons for not wanting to gain the emperor’s attention: Calanthe and Ciri. While neither of them have any idea where the two lost princesses of Old Cintra are hiding these days, Jaskier doesn’t think that would matter to the emperor.

He glances at Geralt to see if the witcher is fazed by this information, but Geralt is just frowning down at the drawing of the vukodlak. “Do we know where it’s originating from?”

“At the beginning, most of the murders happened in the Historic District,” Ostrit says. “The grave of every pregnant young woman who was buried in those graveyards was exhumed. We found no traces of the beast.”

“Hm.” Geralt sits back in his chair, expression carefully impassive. “Six years. Why did it take so long to call in a witcher?”

“The city council has passed two resolutions approving a witcher being hired,” Ostrit says. “Foltest has vetoed both of them. I’m paying you out of my own pocket, Geralt, not on the city’s dime. I can’t bear to watch Vizima continue to suffer like this.”

“And you’re running for mayor,” Geralt says.

Ostrit’s lips quirk. “Ah, you suspect me of having some ulterior motive. Understandable.”

“It’s a savvy political move, hiring a witcher out of your own pocket when the mayor refuses to.”

“It is. It’s also the humane decision. This vukodlak business is what has driven me to run for mayor. Foltest used to be a friend, but I’ve watched him let our city die because he’s afraid of things he doesn’t understand. Young families are moving out in droves. Businesses are closing. People are terrified. Another six years of this, and Vizima will be a ghost town. I’ve lived by here my entire life. This is breaking my heart.”

“So your motives are entirely pure.” Geralt’s sarcasm is normally too subtle to be detected by layfolk, but he’s doing nothing to hide it right now. Jaskier is tempted to kick him under the table and mouth _”five thousand fucking crowns”_ at him.

“Of course not.” Ostrit laughs. “No more or less pure than any other man’s. I want my city safe. I don’t want to lose any more friends to this. I don’t want to go to any more sixteen year old boy’s funerals. I also want to be mayor. I would do a better job than Foltest. I’d actually look out for this city’s interests, rather than existing solely to please the emperor. And I won’t let my citizens suffer and die needlessly.”

Geralt looks at Jaskier, then at Ostrit, then down at the picture of the vukodlak. “I take half up front, half when the job is done.”

Ostrit’s smile returns. “Excellent. Who do I make the check out to?”

***

“You don’t like Councilman Ostrit,” Jaskier says later, as they walk through the largest graveyard in the Historic District. The sun is getting low in the sky and even though it’s not the night of the full moon, Jaskier can’t stop himself from remembering the drawing of the vukodlak and picturing that horrible face staring at him from behind one of the gravestones. He has to do something to distract himself, which means talking Geralt’s ear off.

“Whether I like him or not doesn’t matter,” Geralt says, pausing to examine the name on one of the gravestones.

“I’m just curious why. He seems perfectly nice to me.”

“He reminds me of Agloval.”

“Seriously?” Jaskier is appalled. “But Agloval was the worst.”

“At least Agloval was upfront about being a cock. Ostrit wants us to think he’s doing all this out of the goodness of his heart. If I’m going to be a political pawn, I’d rather everyone be upfront about it.”

“Better Ostrit than Foltest, who has let dozens of people die because he doesn’t like witchers.” Jaskier shakes his head. “Anyway, I like Ostrit.”

“You just like him because he likes your writing,” Geralt grumbles.

Jaskier grins. “What can I say? I’m easily flattered.”

“I like your writing too.”

“You never read my writing, Geralt, but it’s nice of you to say that.” Jaskier bumps his hip against Geralt’s to reassure his boyfriend that he’s teasing. “But you took the job, despite not liking Ostrit.”

“People are going to keep dying, unless someone does something about this,” Geralt says. “Innocent people shouldn’t suffer because a bunch of politicians can't get their heads out of their asses. The last victim was Ciri’s age.”

Jaskier thinks of Ciri and Calanthe and hopes that wherever they ended up after changing their names and fleeing Posada, it wasn’t anywhere near Vizima. He looks around the graveyard, taking in the elaborate gravestones and mausoleums. The graveyard is overseen by a long-abandoned Temple of Melitele, an enormous marble building. The statue of Melitele at its entrance is probably lovely during the day, but seems to leer down at them in the growing shadows.

“What do we do now?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt doesn’t reply and Jaskier turns to see that the witcher is turned away from him, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“Geralt?” If Jaskier’s voice comes out a little squeakier than normal, he must just have something stuck in his throat.

There’s a figure moving through them, slipping through the headstones. In the growing twilight, Jaskier can’t make out its features. From a distance, it doesn’t look like a monster; it’s humanoid in shape and is walking upright on two legs. Definitely not the vukodlak. But vukodlaks aren’t the only creatures that skulk around graveyards. Even with a witcher with two swords between him and whatever is walking towards them, Jaskier feels a thrill of nervousness.

Then Geralt releases his sword and his entire posture changes. “Triss?”

The figure comes closer and Jaskier can make out a familiar head of curly dark hair, golden brown skin, and a warm, friendly face. “Geralt? Jaskier?” Triss Merigold looks between them. “Let me guess, you’re here about the creature.”

Jaskier lets out a relieved little laugh and runs to hug Triss. He hasn’t seen her in months. “Oh, thank gods. I thought you were something carnivorous about to rip my throat out.”

“No, Yennefer’s back at Aretuza,” Triss says and Jaskier cackles and squeezes her tighter, resting his chin on top of her head.

“What are you doing here?” he asks her.

“Probably the same thing you’re here for.” She reaches up to ruffle his hair and lets him go. “Let me guess, Councilman Ostrit hired you to kill the monster?”

“And to boost his public image,” Geralt says grimly. Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“And I’ve been hired by Mayor Foltest to cure it,” Triss says.

Geralt frowns. “You can’t cure a vukodlak. Vampirism is permanent.”

“Good thing it’s not a vukodlak then,” Triss says with a smile. “Have you two had dinner yet? I think we should have a chat.”

***

“You think it’s a striga?” Geralt looks skeptically across the table at Triss. “I’ve been alive a long time--”

“We all know, Geralt,” Jaskier pipes up, earning him a grin from Triss.

Geralt ignores him. “--And I’ve never encountered a striga before. Are you sure that’s what we’re dealing with?”

“It eats its victims’ livers and hearts and leaves the rest intact,” Triss says. “Do you know any other monsters that are that picky about the organs they devour?”

Jaskier looks down at the meatloaf on his plate with a frown. Traveling with Geralt is enough to make him want to give up eating meat some days. “So, what is a striga?”

To his surprise, it’s Triss who answers, not Geralt. “They’re the result of a curse, usually on a pregnant young woman. The fetus mutates and over time, becomes a monster. In this case, the curse was placed on Mayor Foltest’s sister, Adda, fourteen years ago.”

“Fuck,” Geralt says.

“My sentiments exactly.” Triss nods. “Adda died only weeks away from her due date. It had been a difficult pregnancy and everyone assumed natural causes. She was buried in the Foltest family mausoleum, in the catacombs under the old Temple of Melitele. Mayor Foltest was elected two years later. They were very close and I don’t think he’s ever quite gotten over her death.”

“So the striga is his niece?” Jaskier asks. “I guess that’s why he didn’t want a witcher involved.”

Geralt looks into his empty beer glass like he’s wishing he could order another five. “Since when does Aretuza get involved with things like this? I thought your days of working in courts were long over.”

“Back when Temeria had a royal family, I worked for them for several generations. Mayor Foltest is descended from the royal line, actually. Spitting image of his great-great grandfather.” Triss looks sad for a moment. “We take odd jobs to pay the bills, just like you, Geralt. Yennefer, Tissaia, and Sabrina wanted nothing to do with this one, but that striga is a fourteen year old girl and I’m going to do what I can to save her.”

“She’s been hunting and killing people for six years. She might be too far gone.”

“I don’t think a child can ever be too far gone to be worth saving.”

“Hm. Tell us about Adda.”

“Well, I never knew her, but I’ve been told she was a popular local figure,” Triss says. “Involved in a lot of local outreach. There were plans for her to run for mayor, actually. It was only after she died that Foltest got involved in politics. And get that look off your face, Geralt. No, I don’t think Foltest murdered his sister for an easier path to mayorship.”

“You seem awfully sure of him,” Geralt says flatly.

“I’m not.” Triss’s lips curl into a wry smile. “He’s weak-willed and his judgement is clouded by grief for what happened to his sister and what’s currently happening to his niece, but he’s not the one I’m here for. Adda’s daughter is a victim here and I want to save her.”

“Did Adda have any enemies we should know about?” Jaskier asks.

“No more than any other member of an old, wealthy family that’s closely allied with the emperor’s court.”

“Who was the father of the child?” Geralt asks.

“No one knows, not even the mayor. Sounds like it may have been a one night stand.”

“That could be a motive. Probably would have hurt everyone’s political chances if Adda had some mysterious man’s baby.” Jaskier is already forming a picture in his head, right out of a daytime soap. The beautiful, brilliant heiress. The baby out of wedlock. The secret lover. The scandalized family. And then, the tragic murder. “Maybe the mayor is the one who killed her, to avoid the scandal. But why the curse then? Having a niece running around eating people is a bigger PR nightmare than a kid out of wedlock.”

“I don’t see Foltest being the killer,” Triss says. “I don’t think he would have hurt Adda.”

Geralt shrugs. “People have killed for less. We need to know who cast the curse to break it, Triss, and exactly what the terms of the curse are.”

Jaskier is a little surprised; he expected Geralt to be more resistant to curing the striga instead of killing her. Though he probably shouldn’t be surprised. Geralt does have a soft spot for kids. “I think we’re going to have to go talk to the mayor.”

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Triss and Geralt attempt to capture the striga, things don't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos on the last chapter! They were very much appreciated.
> 
> Content warning: This chapter contains mentions of incest. If you've seen the show or read _The Last Wish,_ you should know what to expect, but proceed with caution.

The difference between Mayor Foltest and Councilman Ostrit is apparent as soon as Jaskier, Geralt, and Triss walk into the Foltest family mansion the next morning and find the mayor eating breakfast alone at a table that could easily fit sixteen. While Ostrit is all polished clothing and smooth smiles, the mayor has the air of a man who is staring down the barrel of a gun. He’s a stocky blond man in a rumpled bathrobe with a beard in terrible need of a trim and bloodshot eyes. Jaskier is pretty sure if he got close enough, he would smell alcohol on the mayor’s breath. In contrast, the mayor’s chief of staff, a slim fair-haired man named Segelin, stands behind him in a three-piece suit, eyeing the visitors with open hostility.

“Miss Merigold, I thought we were clear that this situation was supposed to be kept private,” Segelin says stiffly. “This is a family matter. You assured us of your discretion.”

“The next full moon starts tonight,” Triss says. “If we’re going to save Adda’s daughter, we need to do it before she hurts anyone else. Geralt is a witcher with over four centuries’ worth of experience under his belt. We need his help.”

“Has he ever faced a striga before?” Segelin asks Triss, pointedly not looking at Geralt and Jaskier.

“He hasn’t,” Triss says. “But he’s faced similar creatures and he knows a thing or two about breaking curses. To save her, I’m going to have to contain her. I need Geralt for that.”

“If we’d known you were going to require so much assistance to perform the job you were hired for, Miss Merigold, we would have looked elsewhere.” Segelin’s voice drips disdain and Jaskier has the overwhelming impulse to sink his fist into the man’s face.

Geralt pulls out the chair next to the mayor and sits. The chief of staff makes an outraged huffing noise, but Geralt ignores him. “Who would want to kill your sister?” he asks Foltest.

Mayor Foltest just looks at him with beady eyes. It’s Segelin that answers. “Kill? Nobody would have wanted to kill Adda. She was beloved in this city, an angel.”

“Strigas aren’t made by accident.” Geralt leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s a deliberately insolent posture and Jaskier feels a surge of pride for him. “Someone cursed Adda with the intention of killing her and turning her unborn child into a monster. Who was her lover?”

Segelin makes a strangled noise. “Adda didn’t—”

“Didn’t have a lover?” Geralt snorts. “Surely you know how babies are made, Segelin.”

Jaskier covers his giggle with a cough, earning him a stern look from his boyfriend, which just makes him giggle harder.

“Do you know how strigas are created, Mr. Mayor?” Geralt asks, ignoring Jaskier. “The girl would have kept growing in her mother’s womb, even after Adda’s death, feeding on her flesh. Eventually, there was no more of Adda to consume, so she slithered out of her tomb and began devouring living people.” Geralt slides his phone to Foltest to show him the police sketch of the striga. “This is what your niece is. Rotten muscle, bent bones, spidery limbs. Triss and I may not be able to save her, but we’ll do what we can. But first, we need to know everything you know about Adda and her lover. Somebody murdered your sister and there’s a good chance it was because of the child she was carrying.”

The mayor stares at the photo for a long moment, then speaks in a hoarse voice. “Everyone, out. I need to talk to the witcher alone.”

Segelin draws himself up. “Sir, I must insist—”

“Out, Segelin,” Foltest snaps, then jerks his chin at Triss and Jaskier. “You two as well.”

Jaskier doesn’t like the idea of leaving Geralt alone with the mayor, who is definitely hiding something, especially when Geralt left his swords in Roach, but he still follows Triss and Segelin out of the dining room. He pauses in the doorway to look back at Geralt. Geralt’s eyes meet his and his lips twitch, like he knows exactly what Jaskier is thinking and is amused that Jaskier would hesitate to leave him with the mayor. Jaskier smiles sheepishly and leaves, pulling the door closed behind him.

As soon as the door is closed, Segelin rounds on Triss. “I hope you realize that you’re as good as fired, Miss Merigold. Bringing a witcher into this, and one who’s on Councilman Ostrit’s payroll, no less. You’ve broken our trust.”

Triss levels him with a steely glare. The thing about Triss is that she looks young, like she’s barely out of college, still full of sunshine and rainbows. Geralt looks like a man in his mid-thirties, but his eyes are old, like someone who has been alive for too long and has seen too much. Same with Yennefer, who would pass as around Jaskier’s age, if it weren’t for her air of world weariness. But it’s been easy for Jaskier to forget that Triss is a centuries old sorceress, until this moment. There’s nothing young in her expression.

“You’re not the one who makes that call, Segelin,” Triss says coldly. “Your boss is. He hired me to save his niece and that’s what I’m doing. I don’t care about your politics or your election. There’s a young girl living a tormented existence and I’m going to help her. Don’t get in my way.”

Segelin takes a step backwards, which may be the first intelligent thing Jaskier has seen him do.

“We’re here to help,” Jaskier says. “Geralt is discreet. He’s not going to go to Ostrit to tell him the mayor’s secrets. Our priority is Adda’s daughter, nothing else.”

Segelin’s lip curls. “Please, like you’re going to help her. Witchers kill monsters, they don’t save them. What does he care about the life of one girl? He’s the Butcher of Blaviken. He’s slaughtered dozens.”

Jaskier flinches. He hasn’t heard anyone bring up Blaviken in a long time, except the occasional troll in the comments of his blog. He created the blog to make people forget about Blaviken.

“You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand,” Triss snaps.

Segelin shoots her a disgusted look. “Just because you’ve decided to make yourself a mutant’s whore—”

“That would be me, actually.” Jaskier puts his hand up, enjoying the way Segelin’s eyes pop. “And call my boyfriend a mutant or Triss a whore again, and the striga will be the least of your problems, asshole.”

Geralt comes slamming out of the dining room, making Segelin jump. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” he growls at Triss and Jaskier.

Segelin steps between Geralt and the door, which may either be the bravest or the stupidest thing he’s ever done. “Whatever the mayor told you, we’re going to need your assurance that you’ll be discreet.”

“You have my assurance that if you don’t move out of my damn way of your own volition, I will move you.”

Segelin moves out of Geralt’s way.

“Pleasure meeting you.” Jaskier flashes the man a sunny smile as he follows Geralt. “Let’s never do this again, shall we?”

He manages to hold off on asking Geralt questions until they’re safely back in Roach, but just barely. “So what did Foltest say? Did he tell you who the father is?”

“He did.”

“Who is it?”

“He’s the father.”

Jaskier blinks. “But Adda was his sister.”

“She was.”

“Oh, gods.” In the backseat, Triss looks like she might be sick.

“Foltest and his sister were lovers?” Jaskier asks, horrified.

“Seems like it. He says he’s not the one who killed her though.”

“And you think he’s telling the truth?” Jaskier isn’t sure he trusts the moral fortitude of someone who boinked his own sister.

“He wasn’t lying. He wants to raise their daughter. That’s why he’s been so resistant to any attempts to kill the striga. The girl is all he has left of Adda.”

Jaskier shudders. “So we still don’t know who cast the curse.”

“Which makes it harder to undo it,” Triss adds. “And tonight’s the start of the full moon.”

“What do we do?” Jaskier looks between Geralt and Triss. “We can’t kill her. She’s just a kid. But we can’t let her keep killing other people.”

“We won’t kill her unless it’s necessary,” Geralt says. “Tonight, we’re going to need to contain her before she can hurt anyone else. Then we’ll figure out the curse.”

***

“Look, I know better than to ask you if I can come along.” Jaskier is stretched out on their hotel bed, watching Geralt put on his armor.

“Good,” Geralt says. “Because if you didn’t know better, I’d have to tell you that it was too dangerous and there’s no way you’re getting anywhere near this fight.”

“If I could offer a counterpoint to this hypothetical discussion that we’re not having—”

“You could not.”

“But I’m going to anyway. You’ve taken me into all kinds of dangerous battles and it’s been ages since I got out of Roach when you told me not to.”

“If the striga is able to get into people’s locked homes, it would be able to get to you even if you stayed in the car. I don’t want Roach to get damaged.”

“Ha. Hilarious.”

“Strigas are dangerous,” Geralt says. “They’re strong and they’re fast and things are complicated by the fact that I’m trying to capture it, not kill it. If I could just stab it in the heart and be done with it, that would be one thing. This isn’t going to be an easy fight. It would be harder if I were distracted by being worried about you.”

“See, I knew that, which is why I wasn’t going to ask.” Jaskier slides off the bed and goes to tighten the straps of Geralt’s armor. His boyfriend doesn’t need the help, but it makes Jaskier feel better. “Please be careful.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Jaskier presses his lips against the back of Geralt’s neck. “I’m always going to worry about you.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Debatable.” Jaskier leans his forehead against Geralt’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar scents of leather and chamomile. 

“I’ll have Triss with me.”

It really shouldn’t bother Jaskier that Geralt trusts Triss to accompany him and not Jaskier. After all, Triss is a sorceress and Jaskier is just a blogger/musician/general nuisance. “Well, I guess if I’m not around to protect you, she’s the second best thing.”

Geralt snorts. “You know there’s no one I’d rather have with me than you, Jaskier, but not tonight.”

“I’ll try not to take that personally.”

Geralt turns so he can wrap his arms around Jaskier, pulling him close. It’s not entirely comfortable to be embraced by Geralt when he’s wearing his armor, but Jaskier still leans against him, tucking his head against Geralt’s shoulder.

“I’ll be back,” Geralt says into Jaskier’s hair.

Jaskier tightens his grip on Geralt, like he could actually keep him in this room and stop him from walking into danger. “You better be.”

***

Leaving Jaskier alone in the hotel room makes Geralt uneasy. There’s a murderer on the loose and if they discover Geralt is looking to undo their curse, they might decide to target Jaskier. It wouldn’t be the first time Jaskier has been taken hostage. Jaskier has an extraordinary ability to stumble into danger, whether he’s looking for it or not.

Before Geralt leaves, he ensures that Jaskier has his three daggers--one silver, one steel, one iron--within arm’s reach. He makes Jaskier promise not to open the door to anyone before Geralt and Triss return, not even for room service. Triss put wards up around the room to stop anyone from forcing their way in. Even still, he can feel the tension in his shoulders as he and Triss make their way through the catacombs under the abandoned Temple of Melitele, on their way to the Foltest family mausoleum.

“He’ll be okay,” Triss says in a soft voice. She has a ball of light in her hand to illuminate the corridors as they walk.

Geralt shoots her a sardonic look. “Reading my mind?”

“I don’t need to. You’ve been tense ever since we said goodbye to Jaskier. What do you think is going to happen to him inside a locked, warded hotel room?”

“Would you like the list?”

Triss snorts. “He’s scrappier than you give him credit for.”

“He’s only a human. A human who won’t let me teach him how to use a damn sword.”

“Really? He doesn’t have any combat training?”

“Keeps saying he’s a lover, not a fighter.”

Triss laughs. The sound bounces off the stone walls. “Oh, that does sound like him. Have you told him that it bothers you that he doesn’t know how to fight?”

Geralt almost protests that it doesn’t bother him at all, then hesitates. This is Triss. She’s known him for almost as long as Yennefer. “He knows.”

“But does he? Don’t take this the wrong way, Geralt, but when you’re growly about everything, it’s hard to tell when you’re growling just to growl versus when something’s actually causing you distress.”

“I am not growly,” Geralt growls, then hears it. Fuck.

“I’m not Yennefer, so I’ll refrain from mentioning that you just made my point for me.”

Geralt’s lips quirk as he listens for any signs that the striga has already emerged from her tomb, but the only sounds he can hear are his and Triss’s footsteps and their heartbeats. A year ago, he would have snapped at her to stop talking, but enough hunts with Jaskier have helped him figure out that her prattle is caused by nerves. Like Jaskier, Triss isn’t a fighter. She’s not used to crawling through catacombs to look for a monster.

The narrow tunnel they’re in opens up into a cavernous room, lined with the marble tombs of royals past. Each tomb is more ornate than the last--it’s always confused Geralt how much pomp and circumstance humans manufacture surrounding death. As they walk deeper into the mausoleum, the pungent smell of rot grows stronger.

“Smells like death.” Geralt wrinkles his nose.

“We are in a mausoleum.” Triss’s voice is light, but it wavers slightly.

“No, not that kind of death.” Corpses smell foul, but it’s a natural foulness. Even necrophages like alghouls and graveirs smell like dead bodies. But there’s nothing natural about the scent permeating the catacombs. Geralt has never smelled anything like it.

And then underneath it, there’s blood and cologne and something musky. Sex. Geralt stops in his tracks. The blood, he understands. The striga may have dragged some of her victims back here, or at least parts of them. But the cologne and sex? Who has sex in a mausoleum, especially one this far underneath the earth? The cologne is familiar and Geralt wracks his memory to try and place it.

“What is it?” Triss asks softly.

Geralt doesn’t answer. They reach the end of the row of tombs, to find one with the figure of a smiling woman carved into the marble. The scent of sex and cologne is overwhelming here and Geralt feels a disgusted surge of realization that someone stood here and pleasured themselves over a dead woman’s grave. But the disgust is pushed to the back of his mind when he notices that the tomb is open. When he glances inside, all he sees are bones and scraps of a lacy white dress.

The striga has already risen.

“Geralt,” Triss whispers urgently and behind him, Geralt hears a scraping noise, like claws against stone. He turns, drawing the silver chain from his belt with one hand and pushing Triss back with the other. The striga perches on top of another tomb and looks down at him like some kind of hideous bird of prey. The drawing Councilman Ostrit showed Geralt and Jaskier didn’t do her justice.

Ostrit. That’s where Geralt has smelled that cologne before. Geralt remembers the stench emanating from the councilman, as thick in the air as his smugness, overpowering even the pleasant, spicy scent of Jaskier’s aftershave.

The striga lets out a piercing wail and hurls itself—no, herself—at Geralt. He itches to grab his sword, but the goal tonight is to contain, not kill. He hurls the silver chain at the same time Triss raises her hand to cast a spell. Guided by magic, the chain winds its way around the striga, binding her arms to her sides. The creature screams and thrashes. Her wails sound eerily like the scream of a small child.

“Triss, the wards!” he shouts, but there’s a clatter as the striga rips through the chains and lunges at Geralt. He reaches for his sword, but he’s too slow. One of the striga’s clawed hands punches through his abdomen, tearing through skin and muscle like butter, and her jaws clamp down on his shoulder. He has too many potions in his system to feel the pain, but he immediately knows he’s fucked.

Triss screams a spell and light and heat flood the mausoleum. The striga screams again and releases Geralt, scrambling away. Geralt goes to his knees, clutching at the wound in his stomach. He looks down and fuck, his insides are now outside and there’s too much blood to not be fatal.

“Geralt?” Triss’s face appears above him and he realizes that he’s no longer on his knees; he’s lying on the ground. “Geralt, can you hear me? Stay with me!”

The last thing Geralt thinks of before he closes his eyes is Jaskier, and the way he leaned against Geralt, so trusting and full of love, while Geralt promised him he’d come back.

Geralt hates lying to Jaskier.

***

Jaskier stares at the closed doors of the operating room and feels the world slowly crumble around him. He hasn’t seen Geralt yet--he was already in surgery when Triss came to get Jaskier--but he knows from the blood that coated Triss up to her elbows and the tear tracks on her cheeks that it’s bad.

“He’s going to be so embarrassed when he wakes up.” Jaskier tries for levity, but his voice comes out flat. “Who’s ever heard of a witcher needing surgery?”

“There’s only so much I can do with magic,” Triss says softly. “Things need to be…rearranged. And with gut wounds, there’s a high chance of infection.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath. “How bad is it?”

She doesn’t answer, which is all the answer he needs. He slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, staring at his knees. He’s always known that there was a good chance that someday, Geralt wouldn’t come back from a hunt. It’s easy to think of Geralt as invincible. He’s faster and stronger than any man and built like a brick wall to boot. But there have been close calls, and Jaskier almost watched him die once under the influence of a cursed knife. Still, no amount of knowing that this could happen has prepared him for the moment of crushing grief he felt when Triss portaled into the hotel room alone and covered in blood.

Jaskier has never been this scared in his life. Not when he was dragged underwater by murderous merfolk, not when Stregobor tied him to a chair and tried to feed him to a pack of barghests, not when an assassin held a cursed blade to his throat and threatened to kill him if Geralt didn’t sacrifice his own life. None of that compares to the terror of staring at a pair of closed doors and knowing that the man he loves is fighting for his life behind them, and Jaskier can’t even be with him.

“Hey.” Triss crouches down in front of him. “He’s going to be okay.”

“He got his guts ripped out.” Jaskier tries not to linger on the mental image of Geralt bleeding out on the floor of a mausoleum. If Triss hadn’t been there, Geralt would be dead.

“Look, I’m not going to lie to you.” Triss takes his hands in hers. She still has Geralt’s blood under her fingernails. “When I showed up here, it was bad. They don’t have a healer on staff and the doctors don’t seem to understand his healing capabilities. The fact that he was already healing with his intestines still outside his body freaked them out. But as soon as they realized what he is and what happened, they whisked him into surgery. They’re just patching him up in there, Jaskier, and his natural healing capabilities will take it from there.”

Jaskier tries to be soothed by her words, but all he can see are the tear tracks on her face and the blood under her fingernails. “What am I going to do if he dies, Triss?” His voice cracks pathetically.

Triss sits down next to him and puts her arm around him. “It won’t come to that, I promise.”

They sit like that until the wee hours of the morning, until a doctor comes out of the operating room and tells them that Geralt made it through surgery. And only after they know that Geralt will live does Jaskier excuse himself to the nearest bathroom and let himself cry.

***

Geralt is too still. He hasn’t moved since early that morning, when the doctors finally let Jaskier and Triss see him. He’s unmoving in the hospital bed, with too many tubes coming out of his arms. His eyes look strangely sunken and his skin is almost as pale as when he takes his potions. Most of his torso and his left shoulder are covered in bandages. Jaskier watches the shallow rise and fall of his chest, holding his own breath whenever there’s a beat too long between Geralt’s.

A nurse comes in to change Geralt’s IV bag. She doesn’t say a word to Jaskier. She’s already been in a few times today, but she still eyes Geralt nervously. Normally, Jaskier would joke around and try to put her at ease, like he does when most humans are scared of Geralt, but aren’t being assholes about it. But today, he doesn’t have the energy for levity. He can barely hold his head up.

“Jaskier,” Triss says as soon as the nurse leaves and he starts. He almost forgot that the sorceress was in the room. “I’m portaling you back to your hotel room.”

“Wait, what?” Jaskier realizes he’s been slouching sideways and straightens up. “I can’t leave Geralt.”

“Yes, you can. I will be there. You need to change. You need to take a shower. I didn’t want to say this, but you stink. You need to eat something. It’s past lunchtime and you haven’t eaten since last night. You should take a nap, but I know that’s asking too much.”

Jaskier rubs his eyes. They’re sore from crying. “What if something happens?”

“He’s stable. He’s going to be okay.”

“But what if he wakes up and I’m not here?”

“I’ll come get you if he wakes up. I’ll drag you out of the shower if need be.”

Jaskier manages a weak smile. “I really do smell.”

“You sure do.” She pats him on the head. “Come on, let’s get you back to your room.”

Unresisting, Jaskier lets her portal him back to his hotel room. She seems to want to linger to make sure that Jaskier carries out her instructions, but he insists that she return to Geralt’s bedside. The sight of Geralt’s bag, still neatly packed at the foot of the bed, nearly undoes him, but he swallows back the fresh tears that threaten. He takes a shower and changes into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, then eats a granola bar. It’s not the full meal that Triss probably expects him to eat, but it’s what he can manage right now. He’s about to call Triss and ask her to bring him back to the hospital--he’s too tired to drive Roach without risking running her into a mailbox--when there’s a knock on the door.

Jaskier groans. He’s not in the mood to talk to anyone but Triss or Geralt right now. But when he opens the door, he finds Councilman Ostrit waiting there.

“I’ve heard about Geralt.” Ostrit brushes past Jaskier into the room without waiting for an invitation. He is paying for the room, Jaskier supposes. “I am so sorry, Jaskier. This is just awful. How is he?”

“It was a close call, but he’ll be okay.” Jaskier is very aware of his dirty laundry crumpled on the floor and the disarray of his belongings spread over the bed. This isn’t the impression he would normally like to make on someone paying his boyfriend five thousand crowns.

“Will he be back on his feet by tonight? I don’t mean to sound callous, Jaskier, but the striga killed three people last night, and the full moon lasts for two more nights.”

Those three deaths will haunt Geralt when he wakes up. “Probably not, I’m sorry. They’re keeping him sedated right now. He might be back to normal by tomorrow. If not, definitely the next full moon.”

“But what happened?” Ostrit shakes his head. “With the achievements under his belt, I didn’t think a long vukodlak would be any problem for Geralt.”

“She’s not a vukodlak, she’s a striga,” Jaskier says. “Geralt went down into the catacombs to find her, but she disemboweled him and bit him in the shoulder. He almost died.”

Ostrit frowns. “What’s a striga?”

“I hadn’t heard of them either. Someone killed her mother with a curse and it mutated the fetus into a man-eating monster.”

“Do you know who the mother was?”

Jaskier hesitates. Geralt was adamant about keeping them out of this election and telling Ostrit that Foltest fathered a child with his own sister and that child turned out to be a striga is as good as handing Ostrit a victory on a silver platter. “We have our suspicions. But the good news is that the striga curse can be cured. We just need to trap her and figure out exactly what the curse is and she’ll be a normal, healthy fourteen year old girl.”

Ostrit smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. “I hired you and the witcher to kill a monster, Jaskier, not save it.”

Jaskier blinks at him. “But she’s a girl, not a monster. Geralt will obviously kill her if it comes to it, but not before he tries to save her.”

“Is that what happened last night? He dithered around trying to save the demon, and it was able to overpower him? And then three more innocent people were slaughtered! I don’t want him to waste precious time trying to find an impossible cure while people are dying.”

“Look, why don’t you come back to the hospital with me?” Jaskier tries to keep his voice calm, even as he can feel his temper rising. “You can talk to our friend, Triss Merigold. She’s a sorceress and she knows way more about curses than I do. She can talk you through what we’re planning.”

“Triss Merigold, the witch who Foltest hired?” Ostrit’s lips twist in disgust.

Jaskier is really not looking forward to having to tell Geralt that he’s right and Councilman Ostrit is a total asshole. “Sorceress, not witch. And we need her help to break the curse.”

“So, who are you working for, me or the mayor?”

“You, obviously. But this isn’t about you or Foltest or the election. This is about an innocent fourteen year old girl.”

“Foltest’s daughter was never going to be an innocent.”

It’s a struggle for Jaskier to keep his face impassive, in the hopes that Ostrit either won’t realize his own slip of the tongue or will think that Jaskier didn’t notice. If Ostrit already knew who the striga’s mother is, that means he probably already knew the monster was a striga, not a vukodlak. And there’s only one reason he would keep that information from Geralt and Jaskier. “Look, Triss is expecting me back at the hospital. Come with me, or don’t. Fire us if you have to. Either way, we’re going to save the girl.” 

“Don’t act dumb, Jaskier. It doesn’t suit you.” Ostrit takes a step towards him. “I know your type. You play the fool so no one will expect anything of you, isn’t that right? You’re happy to follow another man around and bask in his glory, so long as no one wants you to achieve anything of your own.”

Jaskier is very aware that it’s just him and Ostrit in this room. Geralt is unconscious on the other side of the city. If he doesn’t call Triss anytime soon, she’ll just assume that he listened to her advice and took a nap. “My parents sent me to a half a dozen psychiatrists who failed to decipher the mystery that is my psyche, Councilman, so I wouldn’t waste your time trying. Though while we’re on the subject of mysteries, how did you know that the striga was Foltest’s daughter?”

“Daughter?” Ostrit’s lip curls. “That abomination isn’t human enough to be someone’s daughter.”

“Thanks to you, I’m guessing. You’re the one who created the striga.”

“Foltest did that when he defiled his own sister.”

Jaskier’s phone is in the bathroom, still sitting on the counter. He wonders if he can think of an excuse to go get it that won’t be too obvious. “Why would you care that Adda and Foltest were having a baby? What was it to you?”

“Adda was _everything_ to me,” Ostrit snarls. “She was good, she was beautiful, she was brilliant. And Foltest was always trailing after her like a sad little puppy. It was pathetic. He took up so much of her attention, that she couldn’t even see the other options that were right in front of her.”

“Like you?”

Ostrit continues like he doesn’t even hear Jaskier. “She never would have fallen into bed with her own brother. She wasn’t some cheap slut. He must have forced her or bewitched her or something. She did love me. She just hadn’t had time to realize it yet, because Foltest wouldn’t let her.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath. “If you loved her, then help us save her daughter. Tell me what the curse is, and I’ll keep your name out of this when I tell Geralt. No one needs to know that you’re the one who created the striga. You can still be the hero Vizima needs, and no one else has to die.”

“No, Jaskier,” Ostrit says. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible.”

Jaskier sees the punch coming and tries to throw his arm up to block it, but he isn’t fast enough. Ostrit’s fist connects with his jaw with a sickening thud. Jaskier reels backwards and falls. His head hits something hard and bright lights burst across his vision before everything goes dark.

***

When Jaskier wakes up, he immediately knows that something is wrong. His arms are wrenched above his head and he hangs suspended from them, leaving his shoulders screaming with pain. The ground under him is cold and hard. His head pounds in time with his rapid pulse. He hangs limply with his eyes closed, trying to listen to what’s going on around him. All he can hear are the soft tread of footsteps.

“I know you’re awake, Jaskier,” a soft male voice says and the memories return to Jaskier. Geralt getting hurt. The hotel room. Councilman Ostrit’s.

He opens his eyes and finds himself in a windowless room lined with marble tombs. He’s chained to one of the tombs, his wrists and ankles bound tightly. Ostrit leans against the tomb opposite from him, holding a lantern. The lantern is the only light source in the room; everything beyond the small, glowing circle it creates is obscured by shadows. The councilman looks as poised and casual as if he just stepped off a yacht. He must have dragged Jaskier’s unconscious body here, but he seems unruffled. If Jaskier weren’t braced for his impending murder, he would be impressed.

“Look, if you’re unhappy with the services we’ve provided, all you had to do was say so,” Jaskier says brightly. “I hadn’t even deposited your check yet.”

“Don’t play coy.” Ostrit isn’t trying to be charming anymore. He’s looking at Jaskier like a drowner would look at an unfortunate surfer. “You know why you’re here.”

Jaskier twists his wrists against the chains binding them. “I really don’t. Everything from before I got knocked out is a bit of a blur. Who are you, again?”

Ostrit chuckles humorlessly. “You know, when I hired the witcher, I expected this to be simple. I would just tell him what the monster was, and he would find it and kill it. He wouldn’t waste time trying to figure out what the monster was. He wouldn’t decide to save it. And he wouldn’t nearly get himself killed and leave me to deal with this pain in the ass.”

“Are you talking about the situation in general, or me? Because if it’s the latter, ouch.”

“Shut up,” Ostrit snarls with such force that Jaskier can’t help but flinch. “You weren’t supposed to start working with some sorceress bitch and figure out about Adda. Since when do witchers care about the monsters they’re sent to exterminate?”

“Where am I?” Jaskier asks, though he already has a feeling he knows the answer.

“You’re in the Foltest family mausoleum, of course,” Ostrit says lightly. “And that right there—” He taps on the lid of the tomb he’s leaning against. “—Is Adda’s tomb. We’re about an hour away from sunset. Her abomination of a daughter should be rising soon. And you’ll be here to greet her.”

Jaskier stares at Adda’s tomb and remembers the hideous, snarling face from the police sketch. “Greet her? Look, given that my boyfriend is in the ICU, I’m not feeling my most social, so maybe—”

“Don’t make me gag you.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath. When he speaks, he doesn’t try to hide the fact that his voice is shaking. There’s no point. “Why would you do it? Why create the striga?”

Ostrit goes back to pacing among the tombs. “I did it for Adda. Foltest had to pay for what he did to her.”

“You killed Adda and mutated her baby for Adda?”

“What they were doing would have come out eventually and Adda would have been a laughingstock. I had to stop it, before her legacy was destroyed.” Ostrit shakes his head. “But I didn’t know it would kill her. I got the spell from an old acquaintance of mine, a sorcerer. I believe you knew him. Stregobor.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and swallows. Dead for months, and Stregobor is still a menace. “What did you do to Adda?”

“She wasn’t supposed to die.” Ostrit’s face twists with grief. “It was just supposed to be that… abomination she and Foltest conceived. I didn’t know what the spell would do to her.”

“Nice to know that Stregobor was a piece of shit, even to his friends.”

“He sold me a lamb and told me to wait until the full moon to kill it. I slaughtered it and bathed in its blood until sunrise. I thought that it would just turn the baby into the monster Foltest deserved for a daughter. But the spell killed Adda too.”

“And that’s what turned Adda’s baby into a striga.” Jaskier tugs more forcefully at the chains binding him. He can feel blood starting to trickle down his wrists. “So, dozens of people died because your girlfriend preferred fucking her brother over you?”

Ostrit stalks towards him and kicks him in the ribs.

Jaskier gasps and draws his knees up defensively. “Wait, never mind. She wasn’t your girlfriend. She probably didn’t even know you existed. You say you didn’t mean to kill Adda. You know what I think? I think you didn’t give a damn whether or not the curse killed her. The only thing you cared about was revenge.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Ostrit kicks him again, this time in the face. Jaskier’s head slams against the tomb he’s chained to and his world spins for a sickening moment.

“You’re not as tragic and complex as you think,” he croaks. “She didn’t want to sleep with you, so you killed her. And the dozens of other dead people? That boy you told us about, Mikal? Were they just caught in the crossfire, or is this what you wanted all along? To make Foltest watch his city suffer and know it was his own daughter causing it?”

“I didn’t know what she would do,” Ostrit snaps. “How could I?”

“But once she started killing, you knew what was doing it and how it could be stopped, and you never came forward. You let people die and you let Foltest take the blame. A nice little bonus revenge, destroying his political career. He’d never be able to order his daughter killed, and you took advantage of that. I’m curious, why did you bring a witcher in? It was a risky move.”

“To kill it!” Ostrit shouts, voice echoing. “He was supposed to just fucking kill it and be done with it!”

“Of course. And then you’d be the city’s hero. But didn’t you think Geralt would notice that the monster he was fighting was a striga, not a vukodlak, when it was right in front of him?”

“I didn’t think he’d care one way or another. A monster is a monster.”

“You clearly haven’t been reading my blog very carefully if you think that.” Jaskier tries to soften his tone, even as his head and ribs scream in pain. “Look, you obviously care about this city. You care what happens to the people in it. She’s going to keep killing innocent people if you don’t let us stop her. Let me go, and I’ll never tell anyone about this, okay? I promise.”

“I’m a politician, Jaskier. I know a lie when I see one.” Ostrit comes to crouch down in front of Jaskier. The lantern in his hand renders his smile ghastly. “The striga will continue its reign of terror across Vizima and in a few months, I’ll win the election in a landslide. And my first order of business as mayor will be to bring this temple down on that little bitch’s head.”

“Seems like overkill, if you ask me.”

“That’s the idea.” Ostrit straightens up and turns away. “Goodbye, Jaskier. I really will miss your blog. It was fascinating. You showed so much promise as a storyteller.”

“What do you think you’re going to accomplish here?” Jaskier calls after him. “When I turn up dead, you’re going to be the first place Geralt looks!”

Ostrit continues towards the tunnel. “What makes you think the witcher will survive the night? You, your witcher, and that witch are loose ends. I didn’t get to where I am today by leaving loose ends.”

Jaskier jerks at the chains, sending pain tearing through his shoulder. “If you hurt him, if you touch him, I will fucking—”

“It will be over quick, Jaskier,” Ostrit says, like Jaskier hasn’t even spoken. “The striga doesn’t play with its food. Neither does the sorcerer I’ve sent to Geralt’s hospital room.”

“Wait!” Jaskier cries, but the councilman doesn’t turn around or slow his stride. He leaves without a backwards glance at Jaskier, taking the lantern with him.

Jaskier is left to wait alone in the dark.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for the cliffhanger and say I'll never do it again, but we would all know that I'm lying. This is the fourth story in this series; you guys have been with me for nearly 100K words, so we all know the drill by now.
> 
> Thanks for reading! The final chapter will be posted tomorrow!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his weakened state, Geralt faces the striga again to save Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the comments and kudos! You are all wonderful, as always. I'm so glad that so many people are still interested in this series.

“Look, Yenn, the situation is under control.” Triss stands in front of a vending machine, getting yet another cup of terrible coffee. She doesn’t even like coffee, but she needs something to keep her awake. “Once they stopped being terrified of Geralt, the doctors here have done a pretty good job. He’s going to be okay.”

“What kind of hospital doesn’t have a healer on staff in this day and age? You said they were going to let his body heal itself with his guts still hanging out!” Wherever Yennefer is, the service must be terrible, because her voice sounds far away and crackly.

Triss winces. She really shouldn’t have told Yennefer that. “They struggled to understand that while he heals much faster than a regular human, his intestines wouldn’t just magically realign themselves. But I promise, he’s okay. I would have told you if I needed you here.”

“You sound like shit.”

Triss groans. “I feel like shit. Sleepless nights will do that to you.”

“I would portal there now, but I didn’t still have work to do here,” Yennefer says. “We’re relocating the Lioness and her Cub again.”

“Not again.” Triss’s heart sinks at their code names for Calanthe and Ciri. “What happened?”

“Another baby mage sniffing around. Probably another acolyte of Fringilla’s, given the lack of subtlety in her technique.” Triss can practically hear the disdainful curl of Yennefer’s lip over the phone. “We don’t think she found them, but it came close enough that we’ve decided better safe than sorry.”

“That’s the third time we’ve needed to relocate them.”

“Well aware.”

“How’s the Cub?”

“Sulky. And too old for it to be cute. But I’ll be in Vizima first thing in the morning.”

“Yennefer, I already told you—”

“Yes, I know, you don’t need me. I’m still coming.”

Triss’s lips curl into a smile that’s half-fond, half-exasperated. “A little disembowelment isn’t what’s going to do Geralt of Rivia in.”

“It better not be.”

Triss watches a new nurse, a freckle-faced redheaded man, walk into Geralt’s room. “I have to go. Looks like we have a new nurse. The last one tried to check to see if Geralt had a _belly button._ ”

“Oh, is that the excellent medical care you were talking about? Point them out to me tomorrow. We’ll have a chat.” Yennefer hangs up before Triss can reply. She doesn’t do goodbyes. Triss stopped taking it personally about two hundred years ago.

With a sigh, Triss returns to Geralt’s room and finds the witcher still sedated while the redheaded nurse changes his IV bag. Triss frowns. Another nurse had just changed the IV bag maybe ten minutes ago. The new nurse looks up and his gaze meets Triss’s. His eyes narrow. Triss looks at the IV bag and can feel the wrongness emanating from it. Whatever’s in there, it’s not medicinal.

The nurse holds out his hands and magic sparks in the air. Triss may not be a natural born fighter, but no one endures centuries of friendships with Yennefer of Vengerberg without learning how to hold their own in a battle. Before the other mage can summon his undoubtedly nasty bit of magic, Triss hurls a spell at him, slamming him backwards against the wall. The sorcerer gapes at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Who sent you?” Triss says in a low, dangerous voice, trying to channel Yennefer.

The man doesn’t answer.

Triss points to Geralt. “Would you rather me wake him up so he can ask you?”

The sorcerer’s eyes flick to Geralt nervously. “If you let him kill me, you’ll never know what happened to the boy.”

The boy. _Jaskier._ Triss’s heart sinks. She should have known that something was wrong when he wasn’t back at Geralt’s bedside within an hour of returning to the hotel, but she thought he was taking a desperately needed nap. “Where is he?” Triss snarls, and now she doesn’t need to try and channel Yennefer. If something happens to Jaskier on her watch, she’ll never forgive herself. Geralt, Calanthe, and Ciri will never forgive her either.

The redhead gasps for breath and Triss realizes she’s pressing too hard with her magic. She relents and the sorcerer wheezes, “Ostrit had me portal them into the catacombs underneath the Temple of Melitele.”

“The Foltest family mausoleum?”

The sorcerer nods, still breathing heavily.

“And then he sent you to kill Geralt?”

“He’s just a witcher.”

“He’s not just anything and neither is Jaskier. What do you know about the striga? Is Ostrit the one who made her?”

“I don’t know anything about that!”

“Is Ostrit the one who made her?” Triss demands again, pressing against him with her magic. If she pushes any harder, the man’s ribs will fracture. The thought makes her queasy, but if that’s what she needs to do to save Jaskier, so be it.

“Yes! Stop it, I can’t breathe!”

“And do you know how to cure her?”

The redhead shakes his head. “No, I swear.”

“I’m not going to ask you again.”

The man looks into her face and whatever expression she’s wearing must be fierce, because he quails. “The striga needs to be kept out of its tomb until dawn. That’s the only way to break the curse. That’s all I know. I wasn’t there when Ostrit cast the curse. I don’t even know where he got it!”

“Thank you. Was that so hard?” Triss releases her hold on the man. “Leave. If I see you again, you die.” It’s an empty threat; since Sodden Hill, Triss has only taken lives when absolutely necessary. But the sorcerer doesn’t know that; he portals out without another word.

Triss looks out the window. The sun is just a pink line on the horizon. The striga will be rising any minute now, if she hasn’t already risen. She glances at Geralt, who is blissfully oblivious to how close he just came to dying. He should stay sedated until at least the morning. He definitely shouldn’t be going on any rescue missions. But thinking of how fast that striga moved the night before, Triss knows she doesn’t stand a chance without him. Without Geralt’s help, she and Jaskier are both as good as dead.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, then places a hand on Geralt’s forehead. “Wake up, Geralt. Jaskier’s in danger.”

Geralt’s eyes snap open.

***

Jaskier isn’t sure how long he sits there, shivering and staring into the pitch darkness surrounding him. He’s not even sure how long he was unconscious after Ostrit knocked him out; he has no way of knowing whether or not night has fallen. He doesn’t know if Geralt and Triss are still alive. Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, even though it’s just as dark with his eyes open as it is when they’re closed. No hired muscle of Ostrit’s is going to be able to take on Geralt, he tries to reassure himself. Geralt will have woken up in time, or Triss will have saved them both. They have to be alive.

Maybe they’re even on their way to save Jaskier right now. It’s better than the alternative, that he’s about to die alone down here.

A scraping sound breaks him out of his reverie and Jaskier draws his knees up against his chest, heart hammering. He can’t see a damn thing, but he knows in his soul that it’s the sound of the lid of Adda’s tomb being pushed open. The sound gets louder, then stops. There’s a long moment of silence and Jaskier holds his breath, hoping with every fiber of his being that the striga won’t even notice him if he’s still enough.

He can’t see the striga, but he hears the slithering sound of her dragging herself out of the tomb. The noise draws closer to him. He takes a deep breath and tries to imagine a harmless fourteen year old girl, not the creature from the drawing. If he thinks about being alone in the dark with the creature from the drawing, he’s going to become a sobbing, hyperventilating mess. He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a croak of fear, so he swallows and tries again.

“Your mother’s name was Adda.” His voice is nothing more than a frightened whisper.

The slithering stops.

“She was beautiful and smart and everyone in the city loved her,” he continues hoarsely. He doesn’t know if the striga can understand human speech or not, but the sound of his voice seems to at least give her something to focus on besides how tasty his heart and liver would be. “The man who killed her, Ostrit, was the one who did this to you. He turned you into this. He stole your mother and your childhood because he thought he loved your mother and she didn’t love him back. I’m sorry. You deserved better.”

Silence.

He’s still alive. That means she might not kill him, right? “We can help you. We can undo what Ostrit did to you. There’s a whole world outside this crypt. You could be a normal teenager. You could go outside and feel the sun on your face. You could have a life.”

There’s a rustle as the striga moves closer to him. Jaskier holds very still, too scared to even breathe. He feels the whisper of hot, stinking breath on his face and swallows back a whimper. “Please, we can help you. Geralt will help you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut as the striga lets out a blood curdling shriek and braces himself for the attack. Hopefully somewhere, Geralt and Triss are safe and alive.

Light floods the mausoleum and the striga screams again. Jaskier’s eyes snap open and he lets out a strangled cry, because the illuminated face in front of him is worse than the police sketch or any of his terrified imaginings. And it’s only inches from his; all he can see is a mouth full of razors. Jaskier presses himself back as far as he can go, but she’s so close and she smells like death and oh gods, he’s going to die here.

Frantically he looks towards the light and sees two figures in the doorway, one of them with light pouring out of their outstretched hands. They’re just dark shadows among the blinding light, but Jaskier can see that one of them is tall and broad-shouldered, while the other one is petite and slim, with a head of curly hair. He lets out a relieved sob. Geralt and Triss are alive and they’re here.

***

The smell of Jaskier’s terror makes Geralt’s blood boil. He doesn’t need Triss’s mage light to be able to see in the mausoleum, but it throws the horror on Jaskier’s face and the trembling of his shoulders into sharp relief. The striga crouches in front of him, her jaws too close to Jaskier’s face. When Jaskier sees Geralt and Triss, his expression crumples in relief.

Triss throws her hands out and the striga flies backwards with an ear splitting shriek. “Get Jaskier!” she cries.

Geralt runs to Jaskier’s side and breaks the chains binding his wrists and ankles with his bare hands. Jaskier falls into his arms and buries his face into the side of Geralt’s neck. “You’re okay,” Jaskier says. “Ostrit sent someone to kill you.“

“Triss took care of it.” Geralt holds him tightly. Triss is holding the striga down with magic as the creature shrieks and writhes. Geralt should go help her. Vesemir would have words for him about wasting time like this in the middle of a battle. But Jaskier still reeks of fear and Geralt can’t stand it.

“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Jaskier whispers.

“I’m fine. You’re bleeding.”

“Just my wrists. It could be worse.” Jaskier shudders. “He told me he cast the curse, but he didn’t tell me how to stop it.”

“We have to keep her out of her tomb until dawn,” Geralt says.

Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “You’re going to have to keep her contained all night.”

“I know.” Dawn is eight hours away. Suddenly, Geralt feels very old and very tired.

With a wail, the striga breaks out of Triss’s hold and launches herself at Geralt and Jaskier. Geralt casts Aard and sends her flying backwards. “Run!” he barks at Jaskier.

Jaskier hesitates. “But—“

“It’ll be fine.” Geralt slips a pair of silver knuckles onto his hand. When the striga lunges at him again, he punches her in the face and she slams into one of the tombs hard enough to leave a hole in its side. He looks around and sees Jaskier still standing there. With a muffled curse, he drags Jaskier towards him and kisses him.

“Triss and I have this,” he tells Jaskier. “I love you. You need to get somewhere safe.”

Jaskier nods. “I love you too.” Then he turns and runs out of the mausoleum. The striga tries to follow him and Geralt drives her back with Igni. Shrieking in confusion, the striga dives for her tomb. The tomb explodes into a cloud of marble fragments and dust and the striga goes flying. Geralt looks at Triss in amazement.

She shrugs. “With no tomb for her to return to, the curse breaks at dawn, no matter what happens here tonight.”

The striga scrambles through the dust of her tomb, digging frantically at it. Geralt feels a surge of pity for this poor, broken creature before she whirls on him, teeth gnashing. He feels a pull in his side as he punches her again. She lunges back towards Triss, who repels her with magic. They continue like that for a while, with the striga taking turns attacking Geralt and Triss while they repel her, like a twisted game of catch.

But the striga gets smarter, or Triss gets tired. She dodges around the sorceress’s latest spell and catches her in the face with its claws. Triss falls with a cry. Instead of mauling her, the striga leaps over the sorceress and flees the mausoleum. Geralt tries to cast Quen to block her escape, but the creature is too fast. Shrieking, she vanishes down the tunnel.

Towards Jaskier.

***

The tunnels are as pitch black as the mausoleum and Jaskier can only hope he’s going in the right direction. He stumbles along, holding onto the walls to keep himself upright. His head is killing him and he’s pretty sure he has a concussion. Somewhere is the depths of the catacombs, he can hear the sounds of the battle: crashing and the shrieks of the striga. The sounds are reassuring; as long as he can hear them, it means that Triss and Geralt are still alive and fighting. Every fiber of his being wants to turn around and run back to them and try to help, but he knows he would be nothing but collateral damage waiting to happen.

There’s another shriek and Jaskier freezes. That sounded a lot closer. The striga screams again, and it’s _definitely_ getting closer. Jaskier breaks into a run. He’s dizzy and nauseous and he can’t see a damn thing, but the screaming is getting closer and closer and he’s seen the thing behind him. The image of those teeth is imprinted on his brain. If it catches up to him, that’s it for him.

There’s another scream, directly behind him, and Jaskier only has enough time for an instant of terror before something slams into him. He’s pinned to the gritty ground face down while claws dig into his back and the striga wails in his ear. He screams too, knowing damn well that no one will be able to hear it over the striga. And then the tunnel is filled with light again and the striga lets go of him. He looks up and finds Triss standing there. She’s pale and the side of her face is bloody, but she pulls him to his feet.

“Fuck, what happened?” Gently, Jaskier touches her cheek, where there are five deep slashes.

“I’ll be okay. You need a healer.”

Jaskier feels lightheaded. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“That’s not a good thing, Jaskier.” Suddenly, her arm is around his waist and he’s leaning all his body weight on her.

“Where’s Geralt?” Jaskier looks around and sees Geralt and the striga fighting. Normally, watching Geralt battle is like watching a violent ballet. Geralt always moves with a grace and ease that could put trained dancers to shame. But to his horror, Jaskier sees that Geralt’s movements are slow and jerky. He’s tiring already. The striga slams Geralt against the wall and he just manages to push her back with Aard.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouts.

Geralt’s eyes meet Jaskier’s. Something sad crosses his expression, then he calls, “Triss, get him out of here!”

Triss pulls Jaskier back and he twists around to see a portal opening up behind them. He protests, but his words are lost among the striga's wails. Just as Triss pulls him through the portal, Jaskier glances over his shoulder to see Geralt casting Aard at the ceiling above him and the striga. The last thing Jaskier sees is the ceiling collapsing in a shower of bricks and dust, blocking the tunnel and sealing Geralt and the striga in the catacombs.

***

Geralt loses track of time fighting the striga. He has no way of knowing how close it is to dawn and it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the striga and the blows they’ve been trading for hours now. He’s reinjured his side; he can feel it sluggishly bleeding, but that doesn’t matter either. His thoughts keep traveling back to Jaskier and Triss. He hopes that they’re safely away from the catacombs.

The striga is frenzied with confusion and bloodlust. The destruction of her tomb and the fact that her exit from the catacombs is blocked has left her frantic. She attacks Geralt with the fury of a herd of wild dogs and she shows no signs of tiring. If anything, she seems to grow stronger and more determined to rip his heart out as the night continues.

He can’t go on like this.

Her claws rake across his chest and Geralt almost goes to his knees with pain. A year and a half ago, he might have been ready to accept his death here. Witchers are bound to die in battle; it’s what they do. The best ending they can hope for is a worthy death. 

A year ago, he didn’t have Jaskier. Geralt isn’t ready to die, not before he can make sure that Councilman Ostrit rots for what he did to Jaskier. He remembers the anguish on Jaskier’s face right before Geralt collapsed the tunnel. Geralt’s death would hurt Jaskier, so he can’t die.

He casts Igni and the striga shrieks and shies away from the flames. Geralt turns and runs. It goes against his very nature to flee from a monster, but he sprints to the Foltest family mausoleum. He pushes open the first tomb, the grave of some ancient king, and jumps inside. Just as the striga comes barreling into the mausoleum, he pulls the lid of the tomb shut and casts Quen.

He falls into an almost meditative state as he lies there in a bed of bones and listens to the striga howl and claw at the lid of the tomb. She’s frantic in her attempts to get to him. He wonders if this is mere bloodlust, or if the curse is trying desperately to preserve itself, even though her tomb is destroyed. He closes his eyes and thinks of Jaskier as he holds the shield steady. Every time he can feel himself tiring from a mixture of overexertion and blood loss, he reminds himself that he can’t die. He can’t leave Jaskier.

Finally, the striga falls silent. Geralt waits for a long time before he pushes open the tomb and peeks his head out, silver dagger in hand. At the base of the tomb, a girl kneels, naked and shivering. She’s small for fourteen, skinny and shrunken, with a tangle of red hair hanging in her face. But when she looks up at Geralt, it’s with very scared, very human eyes.

***

Dawn is peeking over the horizon and Jaskier hasn’t taken his eyes off the Temple of Melitele. He sits on the base of the statue of Melitele, a knot of fear in his stomach, as he waits. Triss is asleep on the ground, leaning against a nearby headstone. She overexerted herself healing the wounds on Jaskier’s back, his concussion, and a dislocated shoulder he didn’t even realize he had. She’s uninjured, besides her exhaustion and the cuts on her face, so Jaskier leaves her in peace.

“Jaskier?” The voice behind him sounds horrified.

Jaskier turns to see Councilman Ostrit standing there, staring at him like he’s a wraith. He’s wearing disposable gloves and carrying a trash bag and Jaskier realizes with fury that he’s here to clean up Jaskier’s corpse. He got here expecting to find Jaskier’s bloodied remains still chained up in the mausoleum. He probably went home and slept like a baby, thinking that Jaskier, Geralt, and Triss were dying horribly.

 _“I’m a lover, not a fighter.”_ He’s probably said those words to Geralt a dozen times, and has meant them. He can count the number of times in his life that he’s thrown a punch on one hand, and he wasn’t the aggressor a single one of those times. Because at the end of the day, Jaskier likes people, and he wants them to like him. And when that fails, he’d much rather talk his way out of situations than use physical force. But he just nearly died in a dark room underground, Triss knocked herself unconscious saving his life, and he still doesn’t know if Geralt survived the night. And all of that is because of Councilman fucking Ostrit.

There’s no conscious decision to tackle Ostrit. One minute he’s sitting on the statue, and the next moment he’s on top of Ostrit, pinning the older man to the ground and driving his fist into his face over and over again while Ostrit shouts excuses and pleas. All Jaskier can think is that Geralt might be dead hundreds of feet beneath the earth, trapped in the catacombs with a cursed girl, and Jaskier can’t get to him and it won’t make a damn bit of difference even if he could get to him because there was nothing Jaskier could do to help him last night and there’s nothing he could do for him today and—

“Get him off of me, witcher!” Ostrit shouts and Jaskier turns around to see Geralt leaning against the statue, carrying a small figure bundled up in his jacket. The girl is very still, her long red hair hanging over her face. Geralt looks distinctly worse for wear: bloodied, bruised, and clearly favoring his right side. He makes no move towards Jaskier and Ostrit, just cocks an eyebrow and gently places the girl on the ground.

Jaskier stands up and wipes his bloodied knuckles on his jeans. “Here’s a compelling story for you, asshole,” he tells the cowering councilman. “You’re going to spend the rest of your miserable life in jail and the only thing you’re going to be remembered for is that in a love triangle that included incestuous siblings, you somehow ended up being the sickest one. You’re going to be remembered for setting a striga loose on Vizima and killing dozens of people. That’s your legacy. I'll make sure of it. You are nothing and you’re going to die alone.” He turns and stalks towards his boyfriend. “Are you okay?”

Geralt is clutching his side. “I’ll live. Triss?”

“I was hurt worse than I thought. She exhausted herself healing me.” Jaskier presses his lips to Geralt’s. His boyfriend smells like blood, rot, and other unmentionable things, but Jaskier doesn’t give a damn about anything but the fact that Geralt is here and he’s alive.

“You waste energy throwing punches when you swing your arm like that,” Geralt tells him.

“You know what, shut up.” Jaskier turns to the unconscious girl. “I take it this is our striga?”

Geralt nods. “She’s half-starved, but she’ll live.”

“Guess a couple livers and hearts a month isn’t the best diet for a growing child,” Jaskier says. “Come on, we need to get the three of you to a hospital. And then probably call the police before Ostrit can flee the city.”

Geralt snorts. “I don’t need a hospital.”

“Oh gods, don’t be yourself for once.” But Jaskier kisses him again, too happy to have him here and safe to be annoyed with him. Or at least, too annoyed with him.

***

Later, when Jaskier wakes up from the nap he’s taking at Geralt’s bedside in the hospital (two nights of no sleep caught up to him the minute he sat down) Yennefer of Vengerberg is standing over him. She’s flipping through Geralt’s medical chart with her lips pinched together in disapproval.

“Oh, gods.” Jaskier closes his eyes. “I’ve died and gone to hell, haven’t I? What did it? All those phone calls from my mother I never returned? The sixth grade math test I cheated on?”

“Probably all the fornicating,” she deadpans.

He splutters. “Well, you’re not wrong…”

“You’re not in hell,” Yennefer says. “Though you may as well be, with the standards of care at this hospital.”

“Did I miss the part where you got your medical degree, Yennefer? Though you are four hundred years old. You’ve had time to get several of those.”

She gives him an unamused look over the rim of the chart. “You’re incredibly lucky that Triss had enough power to heal you, because between the blood loss and the head injury, you would have been dead before anyone here figured out what to do with you.”

Jaskier winces. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Mages don’t knock themselves unconscious healing stubbed toes, Jaskier.”

“How is she?” Jaskier asks.

“She’ll be fine. Some blood loss and a sprained wrist, but those cuts on her cheek didn’t even leave scars. Though I had to help with that, since there aren’t any healers on staff here.” Yennefer casts a disdainful look towards the door.

Jaskier glances at Geralt, who is still deeply sedated in his bed. “And Geralt?”

“He’ll be fine.” Yennefer reaches out and smooths back Geralt’s hair. “They should discharge him tomorrow, unless he does something stupid like try to take on a leshen. Just don’t get kidnapped again.”

“I’ll do my best.” Jaskier grimaces, remembering the utter terror of being chained up in the mausoleum like a steak on a platter.

Yennefer seems to realize she’s struck a nerve, because her face softens. “The girl is okay too. They’re keeping her sedated, so there’s no tell what fourteen years of living in a crypt and eating the organs of innocents will have done to her development, but she’ll live. And Councilman Ostrit was arrested in his home this morning. He won’t be hurting anyone again.”

Jaskier exhales in relief.

“If you need someone to be comforting right now, I can go get Triss,” Yennefer says, so clearly out of her element that Jaskier has to snort.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll leave the comforting to Geralt, once he doesn’t have a hole in his stomach.”

“Suit yourself.” She goes back to examining the chart.

Jaskier eyes her. “What are you doing here, Yennefer, if everyone is fine?”

“Triss called me last night. With Geralt out of commission, I didn’t want to leave you two to deal with a striga on your own.”

“Really? So you came all this way because Triss was in trouble?”

Yennefer gives him a flat look. “She is one of my oldest friends.”

“You two dating yet?”

“I can think of a half a dozen ways to kill you and make it look like an accident, Jaskier.”

“Can you run them by me first? I’d like it to be as dramatic as possible, please.”

Grumbling under her breath, Yennefer stalks out of the room. Jaskier grins as the door closes behind her. He thinks he’s growing on her.

***

The next day, when Geralt is finally discharged from the hospital, the staff insists on pushing him out in a wheelchair, much to Geralt’s dismay. They’re making their way down the hall, with the little nurse pushing Geralt’s wheelchair looking absolutely terrified to be surrounded by a witcher and two sorceresses, when the door to another one of the hospital rooms opens and Mayor Foltest steps out.

Foltest seems as surprised to see them as they are to see him. “Mayor Foltest!” Triss says brightly, recovering first. “How are you? How is your dau--your niece?”

Mayor Foltest blinks at them. “She’s doing well, thank you. Physically, she’s in good health. Mentally, well, time will tell. I’m glad to have caught you before you left Vizima. I wanted to thank you all, for what you did for Adda and her daughter. Gods only know what else Ostrit would have gotten away with if you hadn’t stepped in.”

Ostrit would have been the next mayor, but Jaskier doesn’t feel it’s appropriate to bring that up. As it is, he imagines Foltest’s political career will be short-lived once people discover his connection to the striga and realize he protected her for the last six years.

“There’s still the matter of your payment,” Foltest says. “I’ll have it wired to you directly, Miss Merigold.” He turns to Geralt. “And as for you, Geralt. What was Ostrit going to pay you for yuor services?”

“Five thousand crowns, and the bastard went home and canceled his deposit check after he tied me up in the mausoleum,” Jaskier says before Geralt can answer, which makes the mayor’s eyes pop. At a stern look from Geralt, Jaskier adds, “But we did this out of the goodness of our hearts, really. The fact that we could reunite a family is all the payment we need.”

“How about two thousand crowns?” Foltest asks.

“That works too.”

Once they’ve made it outside and Jaskier has gone to retrieve Roach, Jaskier, Geralt, Yennefer, and Triss stand on the sidewalk in front of the hospital. Geralt pretends not to be leaning against Roach for support and Jaskier tries not to hover.

“Well,” Yennefer says. “I will be happy if I never have to come back to this shit city.”

“It has its charms, when it’s not under siege by a striga,” Triss says.

Yennefer doesn’t look like she thinks much of its charms. To Geralt, she adds, “You. Take it easy for at least the next two weeks. No monster hunts, no physical exertion. Yes, Jaskier, that includes sex. Just try to relax, for once in your life.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt grumbles. “It was just a flesh wound.”

“You say that about all your wounds,” Jaskier says at the same time Yennefer snaps, “You always say that, Geralt.” They look at each other awkwardly for a moment.

“This may come as a shock to you, Geralt,” Triss says lightly. “But flesh is supposed to remain unwounded.”

“Listen to the trained healer, my love.” Jaskier goes to give Triss a hug. “Thank you for everything.”

She squeezes his shoulders. “You two take care of each other.”

“We always do. Yennefer.” He gives the other sorceress a sunny smile. “A pleasure, as always. Let’s do this again soon.”

“Let’s not,” she says, and Jaskier laughs and heads around to Roach’s driver’s seat.

Geralt looks as incredulous as he did when the nurses brought the wheelchair to his room. “You’re not driving.”

“You just got out of the hospital. You’re not fit to drive.”

“I’m fine.”

“Triss, is he fit to drive?” Jaskier calls.

“Probably shouldn’t risk it!” She shrugs in response to Geralt’s death glare.

Grumbling, Geralt slides into the passenger seat. “If she gets so much as a scratch…”

“Oh, calm down. I know how to drive.” Jaskier waves goodbye to Triss and Yennefer and pulls away. “How do you feel?”

“Good as new.”

Jaskier gives him an incredulous look. “Do you really?”

“I might need to take a few weeks off.” It sounds painful for Geralt to say.

“Gods, how will we spend the time?” Jaskier tries to reach over to take his hand, which causes Geralt to hiss at him to keep both his hands on the wheel. “Look, I’ve been thinking. There’s no way Ostrit should have been able to overpower me in the hotel room.”

“You were taken by surprise,” Geralt says.

“Not really. As soon as I realized he was the one who killed Adda, I had a pretty good idea what was about to happen.” Jaskier shudders, remembering waking up in that mausoleum. “You’re right, I need to learn how to defend myself. I’ll never be a match for most of the things we face, but I at least should be able to protect myself from someone like Ostrit.”

“You protected yourself pretty well outside the temple.” Geralt’s lips curl into a proud little smile.

“I thought you were dead. I went a little out of my mind.” Jaskier grins. “But I really did beat the shit out of him, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Geralt says. “Your form was terrible.”

“Don’t take this away from me. I won my first real fist fight. I’m not as useless as I’ve always thought.”

Geralt is silent for a moment and when Jaskier glances over at him, he sees that his boyfriend is frowning. “You’re not useless,” Geralt says.

Jaskier snorts. “You only have to save my life every other week.”

“With the merfolk, you talked yourself out of that situation with minimal bloodshed. With Stregobor and the barghests, you were able to stall him until Yennefer and I got there. And with the striga, you distracted her. I could hear you talking to her.”

“She was still going to kill me.”

“Yes, because that’s what she was cursed to do. But you bought yourself time, and that saved your life. Ostrit was right, you’re a natural born storyteller. I do read your blog, when your articles aren’t about me. I don’t like reading about myself. But you’re good at what you do.”

A lump rises in Jaskier’s throat. “I’m probably going to be terrible at sword fighting, just so you know.”

“Maybe at first, but you’ll learn.” Geralt reaches over and squeezes his knee. “But either way, you’re not useless, Jaskier. You’ve never been useless.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

They drive the rest of the way back to Posada in a peaceful silence.

***

Yennefer never expected Councilman Ostrit to languish in jail for long, but when she finds out that he’s made bail after only one night behind bars, she’s glad that she doesn’t have any faith in humanity left to lose. Dozens dead and scores of lives ruined, and he’s allowed to return to the comfort of his own home. She’s waiting for him when he returns to his sleek, minimalist condo. She sits on a hideously uncomfortable couch and watches as he heads straight to his kitchen to pour himself a glass of whiskey and dial a number on his cell phone. The only evidence of his ordeal is the split lip and the two black eyes. She feels a spark of grudging admiration for Jaskier.

“I thought you were in jail,” a male voice says over the speakerphone.

“And I thought you were a competent mage,” Ostrit snaps. “The witcher should be dead.”

“You told me Triss Merigold wasn’t a threat. She broke one of my ribs!” It must be the sorcerer who went after Geralt and Triss. Yennefer was able to detect the aftereffects of his magic in this hospital; she’ll be tracking him down when she’s done here.

“That Merigold bitch is a glorified nursemaid,” Ostrit says, and Yennefer bristles. “But I have another job for you. It’s in Posada.”

That’s enough of that. Ostrit yelps and drops the phone as it becomes scalding in his hand. He whirls around and when he catches sight of Yennefer, his eyes go wide. He doesn’t have time to demand who she is before he gasps and clutches his chest. The glass of whiskey falls to the floor, sending ice cubes and shards of glass skittering over the tile. Councilman Ostrit crumples to his knees, looking up at Yennefer with bulging eyes.

“What?” he gasps.

Yennefer doesn’t move from the couch. “Oh, you’re having a heart attack. Or at least, that’s what it will look like. You see, I knew that someone like you would never stay in jail for long and that as soon as you were released on bail, you’d be sending that incompetent assassin of yours after Jaskier, and probably Geralt and Triss for good measure, so I made a contigency plan. Men like you are so predictable.”

“The witcher…”

“Geralt had nothing to do with this. This isn’t his style. It’s mine.” Geralt and Triss would never approve of her methods, Yennefer knows. Geralt, because he takes a more straightforward approach to killing. Triss, because she still has enough faith in the world to believe Ostrit would face justice in the courts.

Yennefer stands up, smoothing down her skirt. “You were as good as dead the second you sent someone to kill Triss Merigold, you pathetic son of a whore.”

And then she leaves Councilman Ostrit to die alone on his kitchen floor.

***

_One month later_

It’s still dark out when Geralt shakes Jaskier awake.

“Wha?” Jaskier looks up at his boyfriend with drowsy eyes. On the pillow next to his head, Mousesack makes a disgruntled noise.

“Come outside.” Geralt is already fully dressed, because Jaskier is in love with a sociopath.

“Why would I do that?” Jaskier grumbles.

“You’ll see.”

“That is not a compelling enough reason for me to get out of bed,” Jaskier tells him, but Geralt is already gone. 

Jaskier stays still for several moments, mostly out of spite, then reluctantly climbs out of bed and pulls on the first pair of pants he can find. When he finally ambles downstairs, still groggy, he finds Geralt standing in the backyard, shirtless and holding two wooden practice swords.

Jaskier blinks at him. “Not that I’m complaining, but are you aware that it’s freezing out?”

Geralt tosses him one of the practice swords. “We’ll work up a sweat.”

“Are you sure you’re up to this?”

Geralt snorts. “I’ve been up to this for weeks.” The only sign that he literally had his guts ripped out a month ago is a shiny pink scar just to the left of his belly button, just another addition to the myriad of scars decorating his body.

“Couldn’t we start at a reasonable hour?”

“It’s almost five.”

“How is that a reasonable hour, Geralt?” 

“You said you wanted to learn how to defend yourself.”

“It’s hard to defend myself when I’m dying of exhaustion.” 

Grumbling, Geralt comes over to show Jaskier how to stand and how to hold the sword, gently repositioning him as needed. It seems that a lot of swordplay is standing and holding the sword correctly, which in Jaskier’s humble estimation, is a skill best learned around noon. It’s bitterly cold out--Posada is expecting its first real snowstorm of the season later that day--so Jaskier leans back against Geralt for warmth, which causes Geralt to grumble more. Apparently, snuggling up against one’s opponent is not proper sword fighting procedure.

“You’re rarely going to be the strongest person in the fight,” Geralt says, when he’s finally satisfied with Jaskier’s stance.

“Thank you, my love.”

“So you’ll need to be faster and smarter.”

“Well, I think I have the smarter part down.”

“Hm.”

Geralt shows Jaskier some basic blocks. Jaskier isn’t offended that Geralt decides to start with blocks, because they both know that’s what Jaskier will spend most of his time doing in a real sword fight. Geralt’s a slow, patient teacher, and a little ache starts in Jaskier’s chest at the memory of watching Geralt teach this same lesson to Ciri. When they finally graduate to exchanging slow, methodical thrusts and parries, the sunrise is starting to glow on the horizon.

“Real sword fights won’t be this slow,” Geralt tells him.

“And most of my opponents won’t be this good-looking.” Jaskier tries to do a dramatic little flourish with the practice sword and ends up dropping it on his own foot.

Geralt snorts. “And that’s why we don’t use steel to start, or you would have just lost a toe.”

“I mean, who needs ten toes?” Jaskier grins up at him.

“Your balance is already shit. You can’t afford to lose part of your foot.”

“Thank you for that,” Jaskier huffs, which only makes Geralt laugh.

They pick up speed as they spar. Jaskier knows that Geralt is taking it easy on him, probably easier than he was on Ciri, but he lets his spirits be lifted by the fact that he hasn’t gotten hit in the face with a wooden sword yet. It’s only when the sun is high in the sky and Jaskier’s stomach is growling with hunger that Geralt finally relents and calls their first sword fighting lesson a success. Well, he says it was “fine,” which Jaskier takes as praise.

“Same time tomorrow?” Geralt asks, heading towards the townhouse.

Jaskier stares after him. “Please tell me you’re joking. You want me to get up this early again tomorrow?”

“It’s good to establish a routine. Mornings are the best time. I’m thinking six days a week.”

“Six days? Are you trying to kill me, Geralt?”

“I wouldn’t be teaching you how to defend yourself if I was.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “You are so, so lucky that I love you, you know.”

Geralt turns and looks at him with that soft curl of his lips that would be an enormous, soppy grin on anyone else. “I know.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I plan on starting the next installment in this series, which will be another longer fic, probably at the end of May or the beginning of June, once I finish the two projects I’m working on now. Sorry for the wait, but I appreciate everyone's patience!
> 
> If you’re interested in any more of my fics, check out I’m Only Human After All my superhero AU where Geralt is a superpowered vigilante and Jaskier is his journalist ex-boyfriend who can’t stop getting into trouble or hear the cannons calling, an AU where Geralt and Jaskier meet for the first time during the fall of Cintra.
> 
> I hope you all are staying inside and staying safe. Take care of yourselves!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think! I hope you are all staying safe and somewhat sane during this weird ass timeline we've all found ourselves in.


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